Five Times Artie Got Shot, and One Time he Didn't
by Deana
Summary: AKA, 'The Hazards of Working with James West'. As stated in the title, this will contain five unrelated times that Artie got shot, and one time he didn't.
1. September 10, 1875

EPISODE 1: SEPTEMBER 10, 1875

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September 10, 1875. Jim West would never forget that day: it was the day that he'd almost died. Not literally, that is, but if a person's heart could stop from the shock of an unexpected sight, it would've happened that day.

He'd just come from town after doing some investigating for their latest case, when the sight that he found when he entered the train was burned into his mind forever.

Artemus Gordon was lying on the floor, covered with blood.

The sight drove the breath from Jim's lungs, and he ran over and threw himself to his knees beside his friend. "Artie!" he exclaimed. He frantically laid his head on his friend's chest to check for a heartbeat, not caring about the blood that he would get on his face. He heard the soft beating, and almost died again, from relief.

Jumping to his feet, he dashed into the galley to get some towels, rushing back and quickly searching for the wound. The whole front of Artie's shirt was covered with blood, and it took him a minute to realize that the wound was in his right side, below his rib cage. It was a bullet hole, and was very far to the edge of Artie's side, making Jim realize with relief that the bullet had likely not done any internal damage. If the shooter had aimed another inch to the left, it would've simply grazed him. Jim suddenly realized that there was a puddle of blood _under_ his friend, too, so he rolled him over slightly to check for an exit wound.

He found one.

Relieved that Artie wouldn't need surgery to remove the bullet, fear also struck him that Artie was losing twice as much blood, which could kill him anyway. He shoved one towel under him, and placed the other one on top, pressing down hard.

A strangled gasp emitted from his injured friend, and Artie's body jerked as his eyes shot open.

"Don't move," Jim said. "You've been shot."

Artie gave another gasp; from the added pain that Jim was causing him. He reached up a hand and clamped it around his friend's arm, as whatever color that remained in his face quickly drained away.

"Stay awake, Artie," Jim said, urgently. "Do you hear me? Stay awake!"

Artie blinked his eyes a few times, obviously fighting to keep them open. He was breathing too fast, and couldn't prevent a groan.

"Who did this to you?" Jim asked, hoping that talking would help Artie keep his hold on consciousness.

"A…m-man…outside…started shooting…into the train…"

It was only then that Jim noticed broken glass on the floor from the window. "Just one man?"

"Think so."

"Did you see his face?" Jim asked.

"Yeah…but…no…"

"What?"

"He was…right outside…I saw him…but he…moved too fast…can't identify him…"

Jim sighed. He lifted the towel, seeing that the blood flow had already slowed. "When did this happen? How long have you been lying here?"

Artie blinked his eyes, slowly. "I don't know."

From the amount of blood that his friend had shed, it was obvious that it hadn't _just_ happened. "I can't leave you alone to go get a doctor, but if I put you in a wagon, you could bleed to death along the way. It doesn't look bad except for the blood loss. Do you think we can take care of this ourselves?"

The wince on Artie's face turned into a slight smile for a second. "Dunno what help…_I'll_ be…bullet?"

"Went through. You can help by keeping still and not making me more nervous than I already am."

Artie closed his eyes and his head lolled to the side. "Sure…Jim…" his voice was nearly a whisper.

Jim tapped the side of his face. "Hey, don't pass out on me."

Artie's eyelids fluttered, but he gave no other reaction.

Jim got up and quickly retrieved their kit of medical supplies. When he came back, he couldn't wake Artie, so he set about stitching the two wounds as efficiently as he could. At least now, if they decided that Artie _did_ need a doctor, the motion of a wagon wouldn't keep him bleeding. He then carefully lifted his friend off the floor and carried him to his compartment, changing him out of his bloodied clothes and positioning Artie on his uninjured side, so he wasn't laying on the exit wound.

With a sigh, he pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down, wondering who on earth had shot Artie, and why.

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When Artie woke up, he was confused. He found that he was lying in bed, and realized that he didn't remember night having fallen. He could tell that there was light beyond his eyelids, and he started to roll over onto his back to see the clock on his nightstand at the other side of his bed, when unexpected pain gripped him.

Jim quickly reached forward when his friend gave a sudden cry of pain, holding him still. "No, Artie, don't move."

Artemus opened his eyes and looked at Jim with a frown. "What happened?"

"You were shot."

The memory came back to him, and he closed his eyes with a groan.

"How do you feel?" Jim asked.

Artie reopened his eyes and gave Jim a look as if to say, 'isn't it obvious?' He moved his hand towards the wound, and felt the bandages. "Stitched?" he asked, not having the energy to ask an entire sentence.

Jim nodded.

Artie, feeling lightheaded, closed his eyes again. "Thanks." He winced and barely held in a gasp from the stabbing throbs that emitted from both wounds.

Jim quickly reached for the pouch of painkilling powder that he'd retrieved from Artie's lab, and mixed some in a glass of water. "Here, Artie, this should help."

Artie opened his eyes and saw the glass. He tried to lift his head, and Jim reached over to help, holding the glass to his friend's lips and making him drink it all.

Artie exhaled loudly, closing his eyes as Jim laid his head back on the pillow and fussed with the covers. He shivered.

"Are you cold?" Jim asked.

Artie nodded.

Jim went over to the closet and took out an extra blanket, laying it over his friend before sitting in the chair again. "Do you need anything else?"

Artie shook his head, before wincing again.

Jim figured out where Artie's arm was under the blankets and reached out to squeeze it. "Try to sleep, Artie," he said. "Just rest, and you'll be fine."

Artie wondered how on earth he'd ever be able to sleep while in so much pain, but his brain took care of that for him…the blood loss he'd suffered had been severe, and he passed out again.

Jim saw how abruptly his friend 'fell asleep' and sighed. At least Artie had a respite from the pain. He reached his hand under the blankets and took his friend's wrist, finding his heart beating very fast as it tried to circulate the inadequate supply of blood. With another sigh, he stood and left the room, desperately needing some coffee.

As he left the galley with a cup, he heard a horse neigh from outside. Putting the cup down, he grabbed his gun and hid on the side of the door, waiting to see the shadow of whoever was about to come in before he threw the door open and pointed it.

The town sheriff threw his hands into the air.

Jim sighed with relief and put his gun away, putting a finger to his lips and motioning for him to stay outside. He followed and closed the door behind him.

"What was that all about?" the sheriff asked.

Jim headed down the train's steps, before saying, "I came back here last night to find that Artie had been shot while I'd been gone."

"What?!" the sheriff exclaimed. "Is it serious?"

Jim shook his head. "No internal damage, just heavy blood loss. He managed to tell me that someone started shooting into the train's window. He shot back, but doesn't know if he hit the man."

"It was Jones," said the sheriff. "That's why I'm here. Someone who knows Jones came to tell me that he'd found out that you were looking for him, and headed out here to kill you."

"What?" said Jim.

AJ Jones was a wanted killer who'd been spotted in the little Kansas town, and Jim and Artie had been sent to arrest him. It should've been easy.

Before either of them could say anything else, they both stopped walking; before them, the ground was stained with blood.

"That's not Gordon's, I assume?" the sheriff asked.

Jim shook his head and looked beyond it, seeing drops leading away. They both followed them and found exactly what they expected; a body, face down in the brush.

The sheriff turned the man over, reveling the gunshot wound in his stomach. "It's Jones."

Jim nodded. "Artie _did_ hit him."

The sheriff nodded back. "Case closed," he said. "_Both_ cases."

Jim nodded, sighing with relief to know that the mystery of who had shot Artie was solved…now they didn't have to worry that his assailant would return.

"I'll take the body back to town," the sheriff said. "Tell Mr. Gordon that I hope he feels better soon."

Jim nodded. "I will. Thanks.

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When Artie next opened his eyes, he found Jim's smiling face above him. It was a welcome change from the intense worry that had been on his face the last time.

"Hey," Jim said. "How are you feeling?"

Artie tried not to wince, not wanting to worry his friend. The wounds were still throbbing terribly. "I'll live," he mumbled, closing his eyes again.

"I have good news," Jim told him. "We don't have to wonder who shot you anymore. It was Jones, and he's dead."

Artie reopened his eyes. "Dead?"

Jim nodded. "You got him, Artie. The sheriff and I found him outside, twenty feet from the train."

Artie was surprised, not remembering the event very well. "Oh."

Jim fussed with the blankets again. "You don't have to worry now. All you have to do is rest and get well."

Artie smiled at the mother-henning. "Thanks, Jim."

Jim smiled back. "Anytime, Artie. Now go back to sleep."

THE END


	2. November 1, 1874

EPISODE 2: NOVEMBER 1, 1874

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"Let him go!" Jim yelled.

A laugh was his answer.

Jim clenched his fists at the sight of Artie with his hands tied behind his back, being held around the neck by recent prison escapee Tom O'Hara, who was holding a gun to Artie's head. He was a serial killer awaiting trial who'd been spotted in Oklahoma, and Jim and Artie had tracked him to an abandoned house. They'd foolishly split up, and O'Hara had gotten the drop on Artie, which was evident by the bleeding cut next to the agent's left eye. Artie was blinking dazedly, obviously having just awoken from unconsciousness.

"You really expect me to do that?" O'Hara shouted, making Artie flinch. "I'm a killer, West, I don't let _anyone_ go."

"If you do," Jim shouted back. "We'll leave right now, and never come after you again." It was a lie, of course, but Jim knew that what O'Hara had just said was the truth—he _never_ let anyone go—and he was desperate to get Artie away from him.

The expression on O'Hara's face changed. "Really? You will? Well, that's different!" With that, O'Hara took a knife out of his jacket with his other hand, and cut the ropes around Artie's wrists. "Okay then, Mr. Secret Agent," he said to Artie, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "You can go."

Both Artie and Jim knew that it couldn't be that easy, but before either of them could react; O'Hara spun Artie to face him, and fired his gun point-blank.

Artie flew back and landed on the floor, hard.

Jim's breath left his lungs at the sight, and lightning fast, he grabbed the knife from the back collar of his jacket and flung it at O'Hara, where it struck him in the chest.

With a strangled cry, O'Hara fell and landed on the floor, dead.

Jim ran over to Artie and threw himself to his knees; terrified that he would find his best friend dead. What he found made him gasp in shock.

Artie was alive…and grasping his left upper arm, which was stained with blood.

"Artie," Jim exclaimed, relieved. He slid an arm under his friend and sat him up, holding onto Artie tightly when he gasped.

"Ooooh," Artie moaned, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Blood dripped between his fingers.

Jim moved Artie's hand, peering through the cloth before looking at the back of Artie's arm and finding an exit wound, which he'd expected as a result of the point-blank range. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped the cloth around Artie's arm and held it tightly.

Artie gasped again, his face paling.

"Take it easy," said Jim. "The bullet went in and out, you'll be fine."

"Easy…for you…to say," Artie gasped. Remembering O'Hara, he forced his eyes open and looked past Jim.

"He's dead," Jim told him.

Artie nodded, with a wince. "Another _simple_ case," he said, sarcastically.

"Haven't you learned by now, Artie," said Jim. "It's the simple ones you gotta watch out for." Wrapping one arm around his friend's back, he pulled him to his feet and helped him over to a chair, before dashing over to O'Hara and retrieving his knife. Quickly, he dragged another chair over to his injured friend and sat down, resuming his action of trying to stop the bleeding.

Artie flinched, closing his eyes and clenching his right hand into a fist.

"Can you move this arm?" Jim asked, unsure if the bullet had done any internal damage.

Artie tried, and managed to shift it, with a groan.

"Wiggle your fingers," Jim said.

Artie obeyed.

Jim sighed with relief. "Well, _that's_ good, at least."

A sudden _*click*_ filled the air, and without hesitation, Jim dove at Artie and knocked him to the floor, just as bullets flew over their heads.

Artie gave a cry of pain when they landed.

Jim immediately grabbed his friend and pulled him around a table, knocking it over to give them some cover. Pulling out his own gun, he peered around it, trying to see where the threat was coming from.

Artie sat against the overturned table, clutching his arm.

Jim glanced at Artie to make sure that he hadn't been shot again, before looking around the table once more.

A shot suddenly came from the side, glancing off the corner of the table near Artie, and Jim turned and fired before the person even had a chance to blink.

The man fell to the floor.

"Who's _that_?" Artie asked.

Jim stood and pointed his gun around the room, making sure there weren't any other threats. "I don't know, Artie, but we're not staying to find out." With that, he reached down and hauled Artie to his feet, pulling him towards the door.

An hour later, Artie sighed with relief as he sat on a hotel bed, his left arm in a sling. Jim had decided to stay in town overnight, rather than subject Artie to the ride back to the train. He'd managed to lose a good amount of blood by the time they'd found a doctor, and he felt shaky and weak…not to mention the pain.

Jim took the jacket that was draped over Artie's shoulders and tossed it over a nearby chair, watching as Artie blinked his eyes a few times. "You all right?"

Artie scrubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. "Yeah…just a little dizzy."

There was a knock on the door and Jim opened it, taking the pitcher of water that he'd requested be brought up. He quickly poured a glass and handed it to his friend. "Here," he said.

Artie took it. "Thanks." He drank it before lying down on the bed with a sigh.

Jim pulled Artie's boots off. "How's your arm feel? Painkiller working yet?" He took the pouch that that doctor had given them out of his pocket and dropped it on the nightstand.

"Starting to."

"Good," Jim said, glad to hear that. He reached down and loosened Artie's clothes, to make him more comfortable, before pulling the blanket over him. They hadn't brought any luggage from the train, not expecting having to stay overnight. "Get some sleep."

Artie sighed again, putting a hand over his eyes. He didn't know if he'd be able to…his arm was throbbing fiercely and his head was aching.

"What's wrong?" Jim asked. "The pain?" he said, when Artie didn't answer.

Artie wasn't the type to complain, but he knew that he couldn't hide it from his friend, and nodded.

Jim pulled a chair over to the bed and sat down, looking at Artie with a sigh. "Are you hungry?"

Artie shook his head.

"Well," said Jim. "Besides food and girls, the only thing I can think of right now to distract you is to ask some kind of scientific question that'll have you talking for an hour, but something tells me that you're not up to that."

Artie smiled at that one and removed his hand, reopening his eyes. "It's all right, Jim, I appreciate the attempt. The only thing that would really work is to knock me out, but since I've already been unconscious _once_ today," he said, pointing at the cut near his eye, "I don't think it'd be a good idea to do that."

Jim smiled back.

Artie frowned. "Why did you skip over 'girls'?"

"Because you don't look up to going dancing tonight, either," said Jim.

Artie chuckled.

There was a sudden knock on the door, and Jim went over to open it.

The town sheriff stood in the hall. "Mr. West," he said, walking in. "Mr. Gordon." He took a gun out of his belt, and handed it to Jim.

It was Artie's gun, which O'Hara had taken from him. Jim handed it to Artie, who sighed with relief when he saw the 'AG' that was etched into the handle.

The sheriff sighed. "There was no second man in that abandoned house."

Artie and Jim looked at him, shocked.

"But I shot him," Jim told the sheriff.

"I know," he answered. "But he's not there. We only found O'Hara."

Jim looked at Artie, lying there pale and in pain. They were both in danger now…Artie more so, since he couldn't defend himself properly.

"We can't even go on a search for him," said the sheriff. "Since we don't know who he is, and your description matches half the men in this town."

Jim sighed. A lot of thoughts flashed through his mind…getting the injured Artie safely back to the train being the first. It was too risky to move now, though…the man was probably looking through town for them, and could see them when they leave and follow them to the train. "Sheriff, I need you to quickly go downstairs and have the hotel clerk erase our names from the register."

The sheriff nodded and dashed out of the room.

Jim paced a few steps, thinking.

Artie quietly watched, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.

It didn't take long for the sheriff to complete his errand and return. "I told him that if anyone asks if you're staying here, to say 'no', and to let you know."

Jim nodded. "Good."

"Is there anything else I can do?" the sheriff asked.

Jim shook his head. "Not right now. Thank you, sheriff."

The sheriff nodded. "We'll keep on the lookout for suspicious characters. On my way here, I told the town doctor that if anyone comes to him having been shot, to let me know and we'll nab him."

Jim nodded, and the sheriff left. He paced a few more times before looking at Artie again, and sitting in the chair.

"What are we going to do?" Artie asked.

"_You_ aren't going to do anything but rest," said Jim. "_With_ that gun in your hand."

Artie had laid the gun beside him on the bed, but he picked it up again. "And you?"

Jim went over to the pack that he'd taken off his horse, grabbing his rifle and bullets. "I'm going to make sure that that man, whoever he is, does _not_ get into this room."

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An hour later, Artie had fallen asleep, but he was restless, the pain of his wounds making his sleep fitful.

Jim sat in the chair beside Artie's bed, holding his rifle. All was quiet, and he wondered if the mystery man _was_ coming after them…if he'd died from his wound somewhere else, or if he'd simply left town. He sighed tiredly.

Artie suddenly groaned and moved his head.

Jim reached over and touched his good arm gently, not wanting to wake him if he was still asleep.

Artie's breathing had quickened, and his eyebrows furrowed into a frown. He gasped and his eyes opened, his right hand reaching towards his left arm.

Jim tightened his grasp, not wanting Artie to hurt himself. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Artie blinked and looked at Jim. It seemed to take him a few seconds to remember what had happened. He closed his eyes again and covered his eyes with his right hand. "Oww," he whined.

Jim patted his friend's good arm, hating to see him suffer.

Artie lowered his hand and took a deep breath, exhaling raggedly. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Just after midnight. You only slept for an hour," Jim answered.

Artie sighed, with a wince.

Jim frowned. "Did the painkiller help at all?"

Artie nodded. "Yeah, but not as much as I hoped."

Jim sighed. Suddenly, he heard a soft sound, and looked towards the door just as it burst open, and the man that Jim had shot was standing there with a shotgun.

"Drop it!" the man shouted.

Both Jim and Artie were stunned that the man had managed to succeed in taking them by surprise so easily.

Jim had no choice but to put the rifle down.

"Which one of you did it?" the man asked.

"Did what?" said Jim.

"Killed my brother!" said the man.

Jim sighed. _It figures._ "I did," he said. "_After_ he shot my friend."

The man glanced at Artie before looking at Jim again. "He didn't _kill_ your friend, so why did you have to kill my brother?" he exclaimed. "You didn't have to aim for his chest!"

"I didn't know that he hadn't killed my friend," Jim answered. "Your brother took him prisoner and shot him in front of me. I didn't know where the bullet had hit him until it was too late."

The brother shook his head. "No. You're just typical lawmen who don't care about anything but power. You want to _kill_ outlaws instead of arrest them, to just get them off this earth. Then you simply go on to the next one. You're no better than any murderer!" He clutched the shotgun tighter. "I'll kill your friend first, so you can know how I feel!"

While the man spoke, Artie had slowly inched his hand towards his gun, which was lying beside him on the bed. Before O'Hara could swing the gun towards him, Artie grabbed his gun, quickly raised it, and fired.

Taken by surprise, the brother gave an exclamation of shock and dropped his weapon, falling to his knees. The shotgun went off when it hit the floor, harmlessly firing at the wall.

Jim jumped up and grabbed him, stopping him from getting his gun.

The man gasped and clutched his bleeding arm.

"You see," said Jim, glancing toward Artie, who was sitting up, before looking back at the O'Hara brother. "We don't want to kill _anyone_, even when we have good reason."

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As Jim and Artie stepped aboard the train, Artie sighed with relief, heading over to the couch and sinking into it. "I'm glad _that's_ over," he said.

Jim nodded. After having caught the O'Hara brother—who'd _also_ been wanted, for robbing stagecoaches—they'd had to attend an inquest in the morning, to state the facts and make the formal charges. They'd found out then that Jim's bullet had only grazed him in the empty house. Neither of them had gotten much sleep…Artie due to his pain, and Jim from simply being too wired.

Artie closed his eyes, exhausted. The second dose of painkiller had helped more than the first, now that the drug was building up in his body, but he felt too worn out to make it to his compartment.

Jim saw that, and pushed on Artie's shoulder. "Lie down," he said.

Artie obeyed, wincing as he tried to get comfortable.

"I sent Richmond a telegram," Jim said. "Telling him that you'd been shot and that we need a break."

Artie opened his eyes at that. "Oh so true." He blinked sleepily.

Jim nodded. "Think you can stay awake long enough for a drink?"

Artie felt himself drifting off already. "No…" he mumbled. His head lolled to the side, and he was out.

Jim smiled. Heading over to the cabinet, he poured himself some brandy and sipped it as he sat on the couch that was back-to-back with Artie's. Putting the glass down, he got comfortable and closed his eyes, just for a second…and forgot all about the brandy.

THE END


	3. May 25, 1876

**EPISODE 3: MAY 25, 1876**

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James West and Artemus Gordon always enjoyed the chance to go to New Orleans. Life was so different there compared to the dry, dusty, American west. On this occasion, they were there to investigate the kidnapping of the mayor's daughter. They'd successfully rescued her and returned her safely to her family, and Colonel Richmond notified them that he would have a new mission ready in the next few days, after he finished gathering information. The chance to spend a couple of stress-free days in New Orleans was more than welcome, and after having dinner at the best restaurant in town, the two agents slowly strolled down the street.

"This is the life, isn't it, Jim?" said Artie, as they walked.

Jim nodded. "It sure is."

"Maybe we should settle here after we retire."

Jim stopped walking. "Retire? Making plans already, Artie? You're not _that_ much older than me, and _I_ don't plan on retiring anytime soon."

Artie smiled. "No…being here just makes one see what life could be like if things were different." He tipped his hat at two passing ladies. "Someday, James…someday!"

Jim chuckled.

Suddenly, they heard a woman scream, and stopped walking.

"Where did that come from?" Artie asked.

Jim shook his head. "I'm not sure. You check this side of the street." With that, he took off.

Artie obeyed, taking out his gun before heading down an alley.

Jim quickly searched on the other side of the street, and the sound of a gunshot suddenly filled the air. Turning, he crossed the street again and looked for his friend and the source of trouble.

What he found wasn't what he expected.

Down the alley, he found Artemus lying on the ground, with blood dripping down the right side of his head.

"Artie!" Jim exclaimed. He holstered his gun and dropped to his knees, checking his friend for a pulse, and thankfully finding one. "Artie?" he said, gently shaking him, before pulling out a handkerchief and trying to see the wound, which was bleeding profusely.

People started to gather, having come running at the sound of the gunshot.

"Get a carriage!" Jim exclaimed to the crowd. "Did anyone witness this, or see anyone run from here?"

Everyone shook their heads or answered, "No."

With a sigh, Jim tried to wake his friend again, without success.

The carriage arrived within a few minutes, and one of the men helped Jim lift Artie and place him inside.

On the way to the hospital, Jim kept Artie's head in his lap, holding the handkerchief to the wound. Artie was completely motionless, which was very worrisome.

The hospital staff took control quickly, immediately bringing Artie into a room and examining his head. They didn't let Jim in, which he knew would happen, and he spent a long time pacing in the waiting room.

Finally, a doctor came in. "Mr. West?"

Jim headed over to him. "How is he?"

The doctor tried to look impassive. "As I'm sure you figured out, a bullet deeply grazed the side of his head. It required twenty stitches to close, and caused a concussion. He is still unconscious."

Jim sighed. "Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded. "Of course."

Jim followed the doctor to the room, heading over to the bed and looking down at his friend.

Artie was very pale, with a bandage around his head.

Jim grabbed a chair, pulling it over and sitting down. "Artie?" he said, squeezing his friend's arm. He received no reply, and sat back with a sigh.

The doctor patted Jim's shoulder. "If he regains consciousness soon, he'll probably be all right."

Instead of making him feel better, the main words that Jim heard were 'if' and 'probably'.

The doctor turned and left the room, used to family and friends wanting to be alone with their injured loved ones.

"Artie," Jim said. "What happened? Who was in that alley? Who shot you?"

Jim's only answer was silence.

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_"Artie…Artie…"_

The voice was incessant, seeming to echo all around him, and he tried unsuccessfully to ignore it. His head was throbbing as if there was a heart beating inside it, and he groaned, trying to get away from whoever was increasing his pain.

"Artie?"

There was sudden pressure on his arm, and Artie groaned again, trying to pull away but feeling like he was stuck in mud.

"Artie…open your eyes."

"No," he somehow managed to croak.

Jim tightened the grip on Artie's arm, the sound of his friend's voice lifting his spirits. "Artie…open your eyes. I'm not gonna stop saying it until you do it, pal."

In response, Artie's eyes squeezed shut tighter, as he groaned again.

Jim looked up at the doctor, who was approaching with a syringe.

The doctor pushed up Artie's sleeve and injected his patient with a painkiller.

"Artie," Jim said.

"_Stop_," Artie whined.

Jim obeyed, not expecting that response. He kept the grip on his friend's arm, waiting for the painkiller to start working.

Artie was breathing heavily, eyes still closed. His body was tensed up, and Jim was able to feel when his muscles started to relax.

"Artie?" he whispered. "Can you open your eyes?" he asked, phrasing it differently this time, so as not to upset his friend further.

In response, Artie's eyes opened halfway. He blinked repeatedly, the light in the room too bright.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked.

Artie hesitated. "I don't know….what happened?"

Jim smiled, relieved to see that Artie seemed to be himself. "You were shot; grazed on your head. Can you tell me who did it?"

Artie blinked.

Jim noticed that his friend wasn't looking at him, and frowned.

"No," Artie finally answered.

"Do you remember anything that happened in that alley?" Jim asked.

Artie was quiet for a minute. "No."

Jim sensed that something was wrong. "Artie, look at me."

Artie didn't move.

Jim squeezed his arm again. "Artie," he said, worried.

Artie shifted his gaze to Jim's face.

"Can you see me?" Jim asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

"Yes."

Jim shook his head, glancing at the doctor, who looked concerned. "Than what's wrong? Why are you acting so strange?" he asked, looking back at his friend.

Artie's answer was immediate. "Who _are_ you?"

Jim was stunned. He looked at the doctor, who bent over Artie and checked his vitals.

"Do you know your own name?" the doctor asked.

Artie frowned, before his expression turned frightened. "No, I don't!" He looked around…or tried to, without moving his head. "Where am I?"

Jim squeezed his friend's arm again. "Take it easy, Artie, your in a hospital, you're safe." He suddenly remembered that Artie had no idea who he was. "I'm James West, your friend…your partner."

"Partner?" Artie asked. "Partner in what?"

"You and I are government agents," Jim answered. "We investigate crime for the president."

Artie blinked, looking shocked.

"Your name is Artemus Gordon," Jim continued. "We travel the country in our own train…does any of this sound familiar?"

Artie blinked his eyes again, opening his mouth and closing it again before saying, "I—I think so."

Jim's anxiety dropped a notch at that. "What's the last thing that you remember?"

Artie frowned, thinking. The pain was too much and his vision started to spin. He unsteadily lifted a hand and placed it on his head, closing his eyes. His face turned paler.

"Don't bombard him," said the doctor.

Jim sighed. "Sorry, Artie…take it easy."

Artie lay quietly for a minute, hand still on his head. Suddenly, his entire body relaxed, and his hand slipped off.

Jim was taken by surprise, and the doctor grabbed Artie's wrist to check his pulse.

"He's all right," the doctor said. "Passed out."

Jim let out a breath, heavily.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next time that Artie woke, he opened confused eyes, half-remembering what had happened the first time.

Jim was still sitting in the chair, and was surprised to see his friend suddenly wake. "Artie!" he exclaimed.

Artie looked at him, lifting a hand and placing it over his eyes. "Jim," he said.

Jim's eyebrows rose. Had he already regained his memory? "You remember me?"

"Yes…no. What?" Artie said, the last word to himself.

"What?" Jim echoed it.

"I think…" Artie said. He moved his head and gave Jim a familiar, intense look. "I think I knew who you were for a second, but then it left."

Jim sighed. Still, if his memory was already trying to return, then it had to mean that Artie would recover it quickly.

Artie gave the room a half-hearted glance, moving his eyes hurting his head too much. "I'm in a hospital?"

Jim nodded.

"How long?" Artie asked.

"Twenty hours since you were shot," Jim said.

Artie's eyebrows shot up. "It's been twenty hours?"

Jim nodded.

Artie sighed, closing his eyes again. "Did you find out who shot me?"

Jim shook his head, before realizing that Artie couldn't see him with his eyes closed. "No. I'm wondering if one of the kidnappers got away, and used the opportunity to strike back at us."

Artie opened his eyes. "Kidnappers?"

For the next fifteen minutes, Jim told Artie about the case that they'd been on, and all about their past.

"What _do_ you remember, Artie?"

"Well," said Artie, thinking. "I feel that I know you, which is a relief. This would be so much harder if you were a complete stranger to me."

Jim nodded; glad to hear that.

Artie started to say something else, but changed his mind, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his aching head again. "It's…just too hard right now," he said, feeling dizzy again.

Jim squeezed his arm. "Don't worry about it. You'll be fine soon, I'm sure. Knowing me is proof of that."

Artie sighed. He was quiet for a minute, before suddenly asking, "When did we meet?"

"At the beginning of the Civil War," Jim said. "Fifteen years ago."

"The Civil War," Artie repeated. He frowned, trying to remember.

"President Grant was a general then, and I served under him," said Jim. "You were part of a different regiment at first, and joined forces with mine. Grant used us on many missions together."

Artie tried to pull up a memory, any memory. He was unsuccessful.

The next two days passed the same way, with Artie being familiar with Jim, but unable to remember any clear memories. The doctor reluctantly let him leave the hospital, and Artie leaned on Jim heavily as they walked out the door.

Jim stopped on the sidewalk, letting Artie look around and get his bearings. "Anything look familiar?"

Artie glanced around slowly. "Not really."

Jim watched for a carriage, quickly waving one down. He helped Artie climb inside, making sure he was comfortable before letting the driver leave.

Artie slumped in his seat, feeling weak. His head still ached fiercely, and he closed his eyes for a minute.

"You all right?" Jim asked.

Artie reopened them. "Fine," he said. He suddenly noticed the gunbelt that Jim had laid beside himself on the opposite seat. "Is that mine?" he asked.

Jim nodded. Sudden inspiration struck, and he took out the gun, handing it over.

Artie took it, spotting the AG inscribed on the handle. His eyes opened wider and he looked at Jim. "You gave me this as a gift."

Jim grinned. "That's right."

Artie smiled back, inspecting the beautiful weapon.

"Do you recall when?" Jim asked.

Artie shook his head, forgetting that it would hurt to do that. "No, but at least I remembered something!"

Jim smiled; glad to see Artie happy.

The carriage swayed as it went over the uneven road, and Artie winced. He took his hat off, as it was adding pressure to his injured head.

Jim sighed, wishing they knew who had done this to his friend.

The carriage eventually stopped and Jim jumped out first, reaching to help Artie get out, and holding onto him tightly when he swayed dizzily.

"Where are we?" Artie asked.

"You don't recognize this place?"

"No," Artie said.

Jim wrapped an arm around his friend to keep him steady. "Our favorite restaurant. This is where we ate just before you were shot."

Artie looked around, but didn't recognize anything. "Are we here to eat, or just to see if it sparks my memory?"

"Are you hungry?" Jim asked.

"No."

"Then we're here just to see if it sparks your memory."

Artie chuckled.

"Come on." Jim told the carriage driver to wait, keeping his grip on his friend and slowly guiding him down the sidewalk. He knew that he should've brought Artie straight to the hotel and put him to bed, but Jim was desperate for his friend to get his memory back, and hoped that having him look around for a few minutes wouldn't cause him any harm.

"Where are we going?" Artie asked.

"To the alley."

Artie easily figured out why, and said nothing.

A couple of minutes later, they arrived, and Jim brought Artie to the exact place where he'd found him.

Blood stained the ground.

"Mine?" Artie asked.

Jim nodded.

Artie silently glanced around where he stood.

Jim waited.

Artie eventually shot him an apologetic expression, looking paler than he'd been when they'd left the hospital. "There's nothing, Jim. Sorry."

Jim sighed. "It was worth a try." He helped Artie walk out of the alley, and waved for the waiting carriage to drive over to them.

A wave of dizziness suddenly swept over Artie, and he didn't realize that his knees had started to buckle until Jim's grip suddenly tightened.

"Artie!" Jim said, urgently.

"Jim?" Artie answered, blinking his eyes open.

"Hold on," Jim said, beckoning to the driver to hurry.

The carriage pulled up, and the driver, seeing Artie's state, jumped down to help Jim get him inside. Once that was accomplished, he hopped back up and quickly drove towards the hotel.

"Artie?" said Jim, gripping his arm.

Artie's head was lolling. It took a lot of effort to raise it and blink open his eyes.

Jim sighed at the dazed expression on his friend's face, and mentally kicked himself for forcing Artie on that excursion.

"I'm all right," Artie mumbled.

Jim wasn't so sure.

Once arriving at the hotel, the carriage driver helped Jim get Artie out and bring him inside. The desk clerk, knowing who they were, looked shocked at the sight and sent over a bellhop to help.

Artie was silent, looking half asleep as Jim and the bellhop practically manhandled him up the stairs. When they entered the room, they brought him over to a bed and gently laid him down.

Jim let out a breath. "Thanks," he said, handing the bellhop a coin. "Can you bring up a pitcher of water and a towel, fast?" he asked. Turning back to Artie, he didn't even hear the young man leave.

Artie's eyes were closed and he lay motionless.

"Artie?" said Jim. "You haven't passed out on me, have you?"

Artie smiled slightly at that. "No…not _yet_."

Jim grabbed a chair and pulled it over to the bed, sitting down. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like yelling at the world to stay still," Artie answered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Jim sighed. "Maybe you shouldn't have left the hospital yet."

Artie sighed. "I think I hate being in the hospital. True?"

Jim smiled. "True."

"Well, then."

There was a knock on the door and Jim crossed over to it, opening it and taking the tray that contained the things that he'd asked for. He came back to the bed and set it on the nightstand, before pouring water into one of the cups. "Here, Artie," he said.

Artie opened his eyes slightly as Jim helped him sit up high enough to drink. He reached up to take the cup, but Jim held it for him. After he drank every drop, Jim laid him back down, before pouring water onto the towel. "This should help," he said, pushing the bandage up a little and placing the cold towel over Artie's forehead and eyes.

"Oooh," Artie said, reaching up to adjust it. "Thanks, Jim."

Jim nodded and sat, watching his friend, studying everything that he could see; the faster than usual way that he was breathing, the utter limpness of his body, his pale face, and of course, the pain that Artie was trying to hide.

Jim sighed. _Richmond isn't going to like this._ With shock, he suddenly sat straight up. "Richmond!" he said.

Artie's body jerked slightly, startled. "What?" he exclaimed.

Jim reached forward and squeezed his friend's arm. "I'm sorry, Artie! Richmond, our supervisor at the Secret Service…remember I told you about him? He was supposed to send us a telegram detailing our next case. He said a few days…he might've sent it yesterday. I need to go downstairs to see if there's one waiting for us. Will you be all right alone for a minute?"

Artie smiled slightly. "I'm sure I'll survive a whole minute."

Jim smiled back and stood. "I'll be right back." With that, he headed for the door and left, dashing down the hall and staircase to the clerk's desk. "Any telegrams for me?"

The clerk nodded and handed him three.

Jim sighed and took them, running back up the stairs and to their room. He nearly burst through the door, but didn't want to startle Artie again, and entered quietly instead.

"Artie?" he said, heading over to the chair.

"Still alive," Artie answered.

Jim smiled and sat, opening the first telegram and glancing through the case details before putting it down and opening the next.

_Did you receive my first telegram? –STOP- Is something wrong? –STOP- Please reply immediately. –STOP-_

Jim sighed and opened the third one.

_I'm assuming that you two got into some kind of trouble. -STOP- Not surprised, but worried. –STOP- Will send someone to New Orleans to find you if I do not receive a reply by tomorrow morning. –STOP-_

The last telegram was sent that morning, so Jim was relieved. He needed to send Richmond a telegram back, but again, didn't want to leave Artie.

"Well?" Artie suddenly said.

Jim looked at him, realizing that he wanted to know what the telegrams said. "Richmond sent us a new case, and when we didn't reply, he sent two others asking what happened. He's going to send agents to look for us, so I need to answer him, fast." He headed over to the small desk against the far wall, and quickly wrote out his reply.

_I apologize, Colonel, Artie was shot Sunday night. –STOP- Deep crease in his head, resulting in concussion and trouble with his memory. –STOP- Just got out of hospital. –STOP- Unable to leave New Orleans for at least a few days. –STOP-_

Jim suddenly wondered if Colonel Richmond might think that they made it up in order to take a vacation in their favorite town.

_Feel free to send telegram to hospital for information. –STOP- Address to Dr. Harris. –STOP-_

Reading it over, Jim was satisfied, and he stood from the desk and looked at his friend, who was still immobile. "Artie?"

"Still here."

"I'm going to see if I can grab a bellhop to send this telegram for me," Jim told him.

"Okay."

Jim left the room again and headed partly down the stairs, looking over them and spotting the desk clerk. "Can you send that boy back up?" he asked.

The clerk nodded and rang the bell.

Jim went back into the room and sat on the chair, waiting for the boy. When he came to the door, Jim gave it to him with another coin and told him to wait for a reply, before heading to the window to see if he left the hotel and headed for the telegraph office. When he saw him go, he went back to his chair.

The boy was back within ten minutes…Richmond was obviously manning the telegraph himself, waiting to hear from them.

_Very relieved to finally hear from you. –STOP- Next mission on hold until Artemus recovers. –STOP- Who shot him? –STOP- Convey to him my best wishes. –STOP- Please send daily reports on his condition. –STOP-_

"What did he say?" Artie asked.

Jim read it to him.

"Sounds like a nice boss," Artie commented.

Jim had to smile at that. Richmond was a good man and friend to them, but he could certainly give people the what-for if he had to.

Artie slept on and off for the rest of the day. The town sheriff came to see Jim, and Jim brought him into the hall to speak so as not to disturb Artie.

"Mr. West," the sheriff said. "We found the woman who screamed that night."

Jim perked up. "And?"

"Well…this is going to sound ridiculous, but…" The sheriff sighed. "She claims that a mouse ran by in front of her, and she screamed at the unexpected sight of it in the dark."

Jim just stared. "A mouse."

The sheriff nodded. "A mouse."

Jim shook his head. "Then who shot Artie?"

The sheriff raised his hands in the 'I don't know' gesture. "With no one having accosted the woman, there's not a single clue to go on."

Jim sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Maybe it was an accident, and the person ran," said the sheriff.

"Whoever it was aimed for his _head_," said Jim. "That doesn't sound like an accident to _me_."

"I agree," the sheriff said.

Jim sighed again. "All right. Let me know if you come up with anything else."

The sheriff nodded. "Will do."

Jim opened the door and went back into the room, heading over to the chair and sitting down again.

"Who was that?" Artie suddenly asked.

Jim told him what the sheriff had said.

Artie opened his eyes. "A mouse?" he said. "I got shot in the _head_ thanks to a _mouse_?"

Jim stood and started pacing. "It doesn't add up, Artie. Either the woman is lying, or her presence was a coincidence…maybe the shooter was following us, and when we split up, he kept after you and shot you when you were alone in the alley."

Artie closed his eyes; watching Jim's back and forth motion was making his head hurt worse. "That makes sense except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"From the angle of the bullet's track on my head, it came from in _front_ of me."

Jim nodded. "True." He shook his head and sat down. "I think we should leave New Orleans right away. It looks like we won't be able to solve this, so your life will be in danger for the rest of the time we're here."

Artie looked up at him. He didn't think a train ride would be good for his head, but Jim was right. "When do we leave?"

"Tonight," Jim said. "It'll be easier to get away unnoticed in the dark."

Artie sighed.

Just after 9 o'clock that night, the bellhop loaded Jim and Artie's bags onto a carriage, before going inside and helping Jim get Artie out.

Artie was silent, allowing the two men to hold onto him one on each side and whisk him out the door and to the carriage. They carefully helped him in, and Jim tossed the boy another coin before jumping in himself.

Quickly, the carriage drove off, towards the train station.

"Well," said Jim. "That went smoothly. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Artie said, fighting the urge to put a hand on his head. That had all happened much too fast, and his head was throbbing.

It only took five minutes to get to the station, and Jim told the driver to take their bags to the train first, before he helped Artie out of the carriage and quickly helped him over to it.

The sight of the train sparked recognition in Artie's mind, but he said nothing, not wanting to distract Jim.

Jim helped Artie up the steps, opened the door, and ushered him inside, locking it behind himself.

Suddenly, a loud whistle blew; from another train that must've been arriving. Artie couldn't help it. He raised his hands and held his head, as the whistle shot through it like some inhuman torture device.

Jim tightened his grip on him, lowering him into the nearest chair…the one at the desk.

Artie opened his eyes a minute later, and the first thing he saw was the telegraph.

Suddenly, it all came back.

In his mind, he saw Jim sitting beside him at the table as they discussed their current case. He saw Jim standing beside him as he sat at this very desk, writing down an incoming telegram. He saw Jim seated on the couch with a beautiful woman with a champagne glass in his hand, and then he saw another woman, yelling and throwing things at them. He remembered ducking to avoid a pillow, but then accidentally walking into the path of a book, the sharp spine corner smacking him on the head, which had hurt for days after.*

Artie started laughing at the memory.

"Artie?" Jim said, concerned, kneeling beside the chair to look into his friend's face.

"I remember, Jim…I remember it _all_." He reached out and clasped his friend's arm. "It's good to see you…and _really_ know who you are."

Jim smiled, clasping Artie's arm in response. He sighed with relief. "You sure had me worried."

Artie echoed the sigh. "I know. Sorry." Suddenly, his face dawned with shock, and he dropped his head into his hands. "Oh no," he said. "Jim…oh _Jim_…"

Jim stood and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Artie, what is it?" he exclaimed, worried.

Artie glanced up at him, before looking away. "Jim, no one shot me."

Jim's eyebrows flew up to his hairline. "What?"

Artie sighed. "Where's my gun?"

Puzzled, Jim took it out of his back waistband, having planned to use it as a backup if Artie's attacker had come after them.

"Open it," Artie said.

Jim obeyed. "There's a bullet missing," he said, with surprise.

In response to that, Artie pointed at his own head.

"I don't understand," Jim said.

Artie sighed again and covered his eyes with his hand, as if he didn't want to continue his tale. "When I went into the alley, a mouse—the same one, I assume—had apparently been on top of a crate, and as I passed it, the rotten critter jumped right across my path. It crashed right into my gun, and I dropped it. I'd pulled the hammer back before entering the alley, so…when it landed, it fired."

Jim just stared. He tilted his head, blinked, and said. "You're serious?"

Artie sighed, and nodded his throbbing head.

"You're not joking?"

Artie shook his head.

Jim was speechless. He heavily sat on the desk. "Artie…"

"I know," Artie said. "What an idiotic thing to have happen."

"Artie," Jim said again, face paling. "You almost accidentally _killed_ yourself!"

Artie closed his eyes. "Don't remind me."

Jim took a deep breath, his lungs feeling slightly constricted with shock over what could've been. He could only imagine how Artie felt, and reached out to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "Try not to think about it," he said, telling himself as well as his friend. "You survived, and will be fine."

Artie sighed. "You're right…and at least we don't have to wonder who's slinking around New Orleans trying to bump me off. It was making me wonder if it would ever be safe for me to come back." He suddenly looked up. "Jim…this means that we don't have to leave."

Jim nodded. "True."

"Why don't we go back?" Artie said, hoping to change Jim's focus, feeling sorry to have scared his friend.

"We could," Jim said. "But not tonight. You need your rest, and I'm sure that you'll be more comfortable in your own bed."

Artie couldn't deny that. "All right." He moved to stand, and Jim pulled him up, wrapping an arm around his back and leading him slowly towards the hall.

Artie immediately felt dizzy, but ignored it as he basked in the return of his memory. He remembered everything…nothing was missing, and he was so relieved.

They entered his compartment, and he sighed with relief as Jim sat him on his bed, closing his eyes and wincing from the throbbing pain in his head. "I never forgot you, you know," he said to Jim, as he felt his friend start to undo the buttons on his shirt for him.

"No?" said Jim. "You didn't know who I was the first time you woke up."

"Not your name, but I knew that I knew you." Artie said and opened his eyes, reaching up to do the buttons for himself. Lowering his head and trying to focus his eyes on them immediately sent his brain into a swirl, making him gasp and close his eyes again, placing one hand on his head, and the other on his bed, to brace himself. "Ooooh, _that_ was a mistake," he exclaimed.

Jim grabbed his arms to keep him steady. "I knew that it _would_ be, that's why I was doing it _for_ you."

Artie sighed, tiredly. "I acquiesce to your wisdom, James my boy."

Jim smiled, the 'James my boy' showing him for sure that he really had his friend back. He helped Artie change and pulled the covers up over him after he'd laid down.

Artie rubbed his forehead, glad that the train wasn't in motion.

"Get some sleep, Artie," Jim said. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Artie nodded and closed his eyes. "Okay."

Jim stood and headed for the door. "If you're well enough tomorrow, we'll go back to the restaurant for dinner."

"Good," Artie said. "Because there's something that we need to discuss while we eat."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

"Which street we want to live on when we retire," Artie said. "I spotted a house for sale right next to a home where two _beautiful_ sisters live…"

Jim's laughter could still be heard even after he went into his own compartment.

THE END

* 'The Night of the Steel Assassin', season 1

For everyone wondering if this is the one where Artie didn't get shot...nope. In _my_ opinion, a bullet causing a wound means 'shot'. LOL


	4. January 1, 1875

**EPISODE 4: JANUARY 1, 1875**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A single gunshot echoed through the air, and Jim West somehow knew that it hadn't come from his partner's gun. Rushing towards the sound, he jumped backwards when their foe suddenly appeared before him, and threw a wild punch.

Jim and Artie had been sent to the panhandle of Texas, where, they say, 'everything is bigger'. They weren't joking when it came to Billy Bob Roberts, whose height could probably rival Voltaire, Dr. Loveless' bodyguard. He was wanted for the murder of a sheriff and his deputy, and for terrorizing each town that he hid in, leaving a growing number of victims everywhere he went. Colonel Richmond said that he had to be stopped, and Jim and Artie had readily agreed.

Jim ducked under his enemy's arm, swinging himself behind the giant and jumping onto his back, wrapping his arms around Roberts' neck.

Roberts tried to fling Jim off his back, but Jim hung on…stronger than the giant gave him credit for. What Jim didn't realize was that there was a cliff nearby…which Roberts headed straight towards.

Jim eventually saw it, and just before Roberts had a chance to flip him over his back down the cliff, Jim jumped down.

The unexpected loss of Jim's weight overbalanced Roberts, who tipped over the cliff.

Jim looked over the edge, watching as the giant disappeared from sight…and from the world of the living. Wiping an arm across his brow, he suddenly remembered Artie, and started running.

"Artie?" he called. "Artie, where are you? Artie?" It took a few minutes, but suddenly, he caught a glimpse of his friend's fringed jacket. He ran around some bushes, and there Artie lay, unconscious in the snow.

A chill shot down Jim's spine to see his friend so motionless, and he knelt, looking for a gunshot wound and not finding one. "Artie?" he said, tapping his friend's face.

Artemus groaned, wincing. He suddenly gasped and coughed, licking his lips.

Jim lost his own breath when he saw what Artie's tongue left behind.

Blood.

_He must've been shot in the back, _Jim realized, _and the bullet pierced a lung. _Realizing that the wound would prove fatal, likely within the next few minutes, Jim shakily pulled his friend onto his lap and leaned him against his chest to help him breathe better, not caring that his favorite suit was about to be ruined by all the blood.

Artie coughed again and Jim closed his eyes, resting his chin on his friend's head, trying to remain calm for Artie's sake, even while his heart was breaking at the thought of losing his best friend, a man that was like a brother to him.

"There's blood in my throat," Artie mumbled, sounding dazed. He was shivering.

Jim swallowed, trying to make sure his voice was steady. "Just…just take it easy, Artie."

"What did that guy hit me with, a brick?" Artie continued. "I hope I didn't loose a tooth."

"Don't talk, Artie," said Jim, seeing that his friend was already losing his mental faculties. His eyes burned with tears that he was holding back.

"The inside of my cheek is cut," Artie continued, as if Jim hadn't spoken.

"What?" Jim's eyes popped open, and he looked at the snow where Artemus had been laying.

There wasn't a single drop of blood.

Rougher than Jim intended, he sat Artie up the rest of the way and felt his back, finding no blood and seeing no wound.

Artie thought that Jim had helped him sit up so he could spit out the blood in his mouth. "Gah," he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping his lips. Still wobbly, he held onto Jim's arm with his other hand. Moving his tongue around in his mouth, he sighed with relief. "Thank God, I didn't loose a tooth!" Suddenly noticing how quiet Jim was, he looked at him to see that his friend was staring at him, looking shocked. "Jim? What is it?" He looked down at himself. "Am I hurt worse than I thought?"

Jim finally found his voice. "No, Artie, you're fine." He smiled. "You're _fine_." He helped his friend to his feet, holding onto him when he swayed.

"You have a strange idea of 'fine'," said Artie, a hand on the side of his face. "Oooh, what a headache."

Jim swung one of Artie's arms around his own shoulders. "It could've been worse, Artie." He glanced down at the bloodless ground, where he'd thought that his best friend was about to die. "It could've been a _lot_ worse."

January 1, 1875. James West would never forget that day; it was the day that Artie _hadn't_ been shot.

THE END


	5. April 20, 1874

**EPISODE 5: APRIL 20, 1874**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jim fired at the group of riders that rode well ahead of him, the local sheriff, and his posse. They were chasing a band of murderous bank robbers, who they'd been hunting for weeks. Artie had infiltrated the gang, and was currently riding with them. Jim wished that Artie would turn around and reveal himself so he wouldn't accidentally get shot.

"Which one is Gordon?" the sheriff yelled to Jim.

Jim sighed. "I think he's the one on the far left."

The sheriff nodded, shooting to the far right.

Jim raised his own gun again, seeing Artie finally turn around and look behind himself. His disguise didn't include any changes to his face, purposely, to make himself easily identifiable to the good guys.

Suddenly, one of the thieves spun his horse around and started firing at Jim.

Artie noticed, and spun his own horse. The animals were kicking up a terrible amount of dust, making him unable to see the thief well enough to shoot, so he galloped towards him before raising his own gun.

The horse that the thief was riding was jittery thanks to the gunfire, and it bolted away towards Artie, who fired his gun and knocked the man off his horse.

Jim was following the man with his gun, and fired at the same moment, just as he fell. He watched in sickening horror as his bullet struck Artie instead, who was thrown off Mesa from the impact. "Artie!" he exclaimed.

The sheriff was stunned. "You shot Gordon!"

Jim couldn't believe what he'd accidentally done. "Keep going…get them!" With that, he rode towards Artie, who was lying flat on the ground. He jumped off Blackjack and dropped to his knees beside him. "Artie…Artie…!" he babbled, terrified that he'd killed his best friend.

Artie was unconscious, his right shoulder bleeding profusely.

Jim pulled his jacket off and removed his shirt, ripping it half and using one piece to put pressure on the wound. "Artie…Artie? Wake up," he said, tapping his friend's face.

He received no reply.

Covering his eyes with one hand, Jim took a deep breath, unable to believe what had happened. Something like this had always been a possibility, but in all the years that they had been partners, it had never happened before. The worst part about it was that they were half a day's ride away from the train…and even further from the nearest town. Artie couldn't ride that distance to get to a doctor…he'd bleed to death along the way.

Jim would have to remove the bullet himself. With a sigh, he tried to think of a nearby place that would be a good spot to make camp. As he thought, he tied the bloodied cloth around Artie's shoulder before telling Blackjack to kneel. The horse obeyed, and Jim tied Mesa to him, got Artie mounted, and climbed on behind him. Blackjack stood, and Jim quickly navigated him in the direction of some boulders that would provide good cover for them.

It didn't take too long to arrive, and Jim carefully pulled Artie off Blackjack after the horse knelt again. He grabbed Artie's bedroll off Mesa, laid it out, and put Artie on top of it before checking the status of the bleeding.

It hadn't yet slowed.

Jim knew that he had to remove the bullet as soon as possible, so he could stitch the wound before Artie lost too much blood. He quickly grabbed his pack and took out their medical supplies, before lighting a match and holding a thin knife in the flame to sterilize it.

Unfortunately, Artie chose that moment to wake. He groaned and moved his head, his breathing rate increasing as he felt the pain.

Jim squeezed his arm. "Take it easy, Artie, you've been shot."

Artie winced and gasped, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "He got me?" he said, obviously thinking that it had been the man who he'd fired at.

Jim didn't answer. "I have to remove the bullet before you lose too much blood."

Artie's face paled a few shades. That would _not_ be fun. He forced his eyes open and looked at Jim. "I trust you," he said, his voice rough with pain.

A rock formed in the pit of Jim's stomach. _You trusted me not to accidentally shoot you, too!_ He took a flask of whiskey out of the pack of supplies, putting a hand under Artie's head and lifting it so he could drink.

Artie guzzled it. It went to his head within seconds, as they knew it would, and his brain reeled as Jim laid his head back down to the bedroll. Jim twisted the other half of his shirt into a thick cord, and stuck it between his friend's teeth before immediately getting to work, not giving Artie any time to dwell on the pain that was to come. He knelt on Artie's arm to prevent him from moving it, before carefully inserting the knife into the wound.

Artie gave a strangled cry, muted thanks to the fabric.

Jim tried to ignore his friend's reaction, knowing that it would be best for Artie if he quickly found the bullet and got it out as fast as possible. He probed deeper.

Artie gave another muted cry, before passing out.

Jim sighed with relief and shifted off his friend's arm, taking the piece of shirt out of his mouth and digging around for the bullet again. It wasn't easy for him to find, and when he finally did, he pulled it out and threw it as hard as he could, angry with himself. He looked at his bloody hands and found them shaking, as his body reacted to his emotional state. _I shot Artie. I could've killed him!_

Trying to force his thoughts away, he grabbed his canteen and poured it over Artie's shoulder, wiping as much of the blood away as he could before he poured whiskey over the wound, to clean it. Carefully, he then put twelve stitches into the wound, before wrapping it with the clean half of his shirt. He checked Artie's pulse and found it beating fast, which wasn't surprising.

That done, he saw that sunset wasn't far off, and he quickly built a fire and grabbed their blankets, knowing that the Arizona desert got cold at night.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Artie woke, the first thing he became aware of, naturally, was the pain. It encompassed his entire shoulder, with twinges shooting down his arm and sideways into his chest. He sucked in a breath and groaned, squirming as if he could get away from the pain.

Jim was sitting beside him, and he reached out and grasped his friend's good shoulder. "Hey, don't move."

Artie opened his eyes for a few seconds, before closing them again. "Bullet…out?" he asked.

Jim nodded. "Yes."

Artie was relieved at that. He tried to shift, to get more comfortable, which he found to be a big mistake. "Ahh…ahh…ahh…" he panted.

Jim squeezed his good shoulder. "I said don't move!" he repeated. "What's wrong…tell me and I'll help you."

"There's something…under the…bedroll," Artie managed to say, eyes squeezed shut. "A rock, maybe."

"Okay, which part of your body is it under?"

"My back."

Jim shoved his hand between the ground and bedroll, moving it around before he found the rock and pulled it out. It was almost big enough to fill his palm, and he winced. "I'm sorry, Artie, I didn't know."

"S'okay," Artie slurred.

Jim took one of the canteens and poured a pack of Artie's special painkiller/sedative creation into it. "Here," he said, "This will help the pain," _and make you sleep. _He put his hand under Artie's head again and helped him drink it, hoping that it would knock him out quickly.

Artie licked his lips as Jim laid his head back down. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"No problem, Artie," Jim said. What he almost said was, 'don't thank me, it's my fault that this happened!'

Artie fell asleep quickly, and Jim was relieved that his friend had a respite from the pain. Lying down on his bedroll next to Artie's, he lay on his side facing his friend, doubting that he would sleep a wink.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Artie didn't move an inch all night…the drug combined with his weakened state helping to keep him unconscious.

Jim slept a little here and there, but woke each time abruptly, as if his brain kept trying to urgently remind him of what had happened. It was just as cold as Jim knew it would be, and he kept the fire blazing, giving Artie all of the blankets but one.

When the sun rose, it seemed to Jim that morning had taken an eternity to come. He made some coffee and drank four or five cups of it, sitting cross-legged next to Artie, staring at him, wondering when he would wake. It was close to noon before he finally did.

A loud gasp was the first thing that notified Jim that Artie was awake. He'd been pouring himself another cup of coffee, and hurried back to his friend's side. "Artie?" he said.

Artie's eyes were closed tightly, his face was extremely pale and he was breathing heavily. His left hand had strayed towards his right shoulder, but he'd wisely stopped before touching it. "Jim?" he croaked.

"I guess it'd be a dumb question to ask how you feel," Jim said.

"The dumbest," Artie agreed.

"I'm sorry, Artie."

"Not…your…fault," Artie answered.

Jim had to turn his face away at that. _Not my fault? It's __completely__ my fault; I'm the one who shot you!_

"Water?" Artie suddenly said.

Jim quickly grabbed Artie's canteen.

"No sedative," Artie told him.

Jim smiled slightly. Even while injured, Artie knew exactly how Jim's mind worked. He grabbed a different canteen and opened the pack of medical supplies again, taking out the painkiller that had no added sedative, and gave that to his friend instead.

Artie sighed after drinking it. His shoulder was throbbing terribly, and he almost forgot what he wanted to say to his friend. "Did we…catch them?" he asked.

Jim shrugged. "I don't know. After you…" He hesitated. "…went down, I told the sheriff to keep after them. He and the posse followed, and I haven't seen them since."

Artie sighed again, trying to shift his position, but changed his mind. His eyes were still closed, and he suddenly opened them and tried to look around a little. He saw the boulders that surrounded them, providing shade. "Perfect spot," he commented.

Jim smiled, before dragging his pack closer. "Jerky?" he offered. Not having known that they were going to be stuck on the trail, they didn't have much food with them.

Artie made a face.

"You have to keep your strength up," said Jim. He suddenly realized that Artie couldn't eat while lying down. "I'm going to sit you up."

_I'd rather you didn't, _Artie thought to himself, knowing how painful that would be.

Jim grabbed his own bedroll and rolled it up with all of the blankets, tying it into as big a ball as possible before bringing it over and plopping it beside Artie on his right. Then, he stepped over to Artie's left side, and, as carefully as possible, he slid his arm under his friend and carefully lifted him up.

Artie held his breath, biting his bottom lip to avoid groaning.

Once Jim had Artie where he wanted him, he reached across him and grabbed the ball of fabric, pulling it over and situating it behind his friend before leaning him back.

Artie gave a ragged sigh, even paler than he'd been before. He closed his eyes and sucked in another breath, having no idea how he managed to prevent voicing the pain, which was agonizing.

Jim squeezed his friend's good shoulder, feeling a pang of guilt that hurt nearly just as much as the pain that Artie was suffering. He waited until Artie had regained some control, before offering the jerky again.

Artie shakily took it and bit off a piece, making a face as he chewed it.

Jim ate a piece too. "It's better than nothing," he said.

Artie sighed. "Not really."

Jim waited until Artie was finished, before he gave him some more water and took the opportunity to check the wound.

Artie inwardly winced at the sight of the stitched bullet wound. It was ugly, with bruising on the skin around it.

"It looks all right," Jim said, before rebandaging it. "How's it feel? Did the painkiller help at all?"

Artie nodded, closing his eyes tiredly.

Jim was very relieved to hear that, and squeezed his friend's good shoulder. "Don't fall asleep yet, let me lie you back down first."

Artie shook his head. "No…don't." The reclining position wasn't uncomfortable, and since the pain had died down a little, he didn't want any movement to increase it again.

Jim nodded. "All right."

Artie sighed and his head lolled. He was so tired, but didn't know how he would sleep while in such pain.

Jim watched him, wondering the same thing.

"How long do you plan to stay here?" Artie suddenly asked.

Jim sighed. "Until tomorrow, I suppose. You're in no condition to ride…you won't be tomorrow, either, but we'll run out of water if we stay longer."

Artie nodded. He opened his eyes, hearing the worry in his friend's voice. "I'll be fine, Jim…it's not like I've never been shot before."

Jim smiled, but it was forced.

The day was a long one. It grew hot, but not unbearably so, and they both were inwardly grateful that it was April, not July. The spot that Jim had found was shaded by the rocks for most of the day, and when the sun hit Artie, Jim positioned the horses to block it. After sunset, the temperature cooled rapidly.

Artie managed to fall asleep, and he woke to the smell of meat. Blinking blearily, he watched Jim as he cooked something over the fire. "What's that?" he called. "Rattlesnake?"

Jim turned to look at him, grinning slightly at the joke. "Rabbit," he said, happily. Jim really didn't want to feed Artie jerky again; they needed _real_ food.

Artie was glad to hear that. "If God fed thousands of Hebrews in the desert, He can do the same for the two of us."

"Well, it looks like He did," said Jim, coming over to Artie with the meat on two sticks. He handed one to him. "Wait a couple of minutes, it's too hot."

Artie reached out his left hand, obeying. The meat needed salt, but Artie felt a little better after eating; it felt good to have something in his stomach other than jerky.

Afterwards, Jim convinced Artie to take the painkiller that contained the sedative, as they had a hard day coming and should head out as early as possible.

Jim forced himself to sleep that night as much as he could. He stayed right beside Artie so he would hear if he needed him, but thanks to the drug, Artie once again slept like a rock.

When morning came, Jim again filled himself with coffee and broke up the camp, packing everything up and waiting for Artie to wake, which he knew should be soon, since he'd gone to sleep so early that night.

It was another hour before Artie woke, in the same manner as the previous morning: with a pained gasp.

Jim grabbed Artie's left hand when his friend reached towards his shoulder. "That's a no-no, Artie."

Artemus opened his eyes and blinked at his friend. "Morning," he said with a wince. "Now let go of me so I can go back to sleep."

Jim shook his head. "That's another no-no," he said, as he let go. "We have to leave."

Artie frowned. "Oh," he said, reaching up his hand to rub his eyes. "I wasn't thinking." He lowered his hand and closed his eyes again with a tired sigh.

Jim sighed himself. Artie was too weak to travel. If only they'd had more water with them, they could've stayed for another day.

Artie's eyes stayed closed. His face was very pale, and Jim didn't have the heart to disturb him. "Let me know when you're ready," he said, compassionately.

Artie blinked his eyes open with effort. "We should leave now, then," he said. "The longer I lay here, the harder it will be."

Jim nodded. He whistled to Blackjack, who nickered in response and headed over. "Kneel," he said.

The horse obeyed.

Jim got an arm under his friend and carefully sat him up.

Artie tried not to react, closing his eyes again and holding his breath.

Using a spare shirt that he had in his pack, Jim tied it around Artie's neck as a sling, before carefully resting his friend's arm in it. "Scoot off the bedroll," he said, taking Artie's good arm and pulling him as he tried to slide over. Once Artie was off it, Jim rolled it up and attached it to Mesa, who was tied to Blackjack. Jim took a quick look around to make sure that he hadn't missed anything, before he pulled Artie's good arm over his own shoulders and slowly stood, holding onto his friend tightly when Artie's knees didn't lock and he hung in Jim's grip. He quickly pulled him the few feet over and sat him on the waiting Blackjack, wrapping his arms around his friend's chest so he wouldn't slide off. "Artie, swing your leg over," he said.

Artie, gasping from the pain and lightheadedness that made it hard to stay conscious, tried to obey and eventually managed, with difficulty.

Jim mounted behind him and wrapped an arm around his friend so Artie wouldn't fall off. "Stand," he told his horse, who obeyed. He kicked Blackjack into a slow walk, aware that his grip was the only thing keeping his friend upright on the horse. "Artie, you all right?"

Artie's mumble at least showed Jim that his friend was conscious.

It got hotter than the previous day had been, and the ride back to the train was very hard on Artie. Jim gave him most of the water, taking the barest minimum for himself, and only when his throat got so parched that he could barely swallow.

Artie never spoke unless Jim spoke first. The heat was the last thing he needed when combined with his blood loss, and he stayed limp during the entire ride, in a half-conscious state most of the time.

Hours later, when Jim caught sight of the train, he had to fight the urge to send Blackjack into a gallop. "Artie," he said. "We're almost there, look."

Artie moved his head slightly, but didn't raise it or respond.

Jim sighed at that, and urged the horse on a little faster. When they finally arrived, he made Blackjack kneel and pulled Artie off the horse.

Artie was just as limp now as he'd been when Jim had put him on the horse, and he pulled Artie up the steps to the train and quickly brought him inside, getting him over to the couch and sitting him down, before heading into the galley and grabbing a pitcher of water, two glasses, and wetting a towel. He quickly carried everything over to Artie and set it all down, before patting the towel over Artie's face, trying to revive him.

"Artie," he said. "Wake up, Artie, we're back, I have water for you."

Artie moved his head, opening his eyes halfway.

Jim put the towel down and poured a glass of water, bringing it to Artie's lips and helping him drink it.

The water was cool and refreshing, unlike the warm water in the canteens. Artie reached up his hand to take the glass, but Jim didn't let go.

"More," Artie said.

Jim poured another glass and helped Artie drink it.

Artie exhaled noisily after finishing the water, opening his eyes all the way. He saw the towel and picked it up, plopping it on his face to dispel some of the heat from their sweltering ride.

With Artie revived, Jim poured himself some water and downed it, having a second glass as well. When he finished, he put the cup down and peeked under the towel over Artie's face. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Artie reached up and pulled the towel off. "Better now that we're back," he said.

Jim nodded. "Come on, you need to rest." With that, he pulled Artie up from the couch and assisted him down the hall to his compartment, where he helped him change out of his dusty, sweaty clothes and helped him lie down.

Artie sighed in relief to feel the mattress and pillow under him. He quickly dozed off, and started to dream.

_Artie rode towards the man who'd started shooting at Jim. The man's horse bucked, frightened by the gunfire, and bolted towards Artie. The man galloped right into Artie's path as Artie shot at him, and he flew from his horse. At the same time, a bullet slammed into Artie's shoulder, and he suddenly found himself lying on the ground in terrible pain, as blood started to soak his shirt…_

Something touched Artie, and he jumped, startled.

Jim let go. "Sorry…I wanted to take a look at the wound, I didn't know that you weren't awake."

"Who shot me?" Artie exclaimed, half asleep. He'd figured it out in the dream, and mentally kicked himself for what he'd just said.

Jim sighed and stood from the bed, facing the other direction.

Artie echoed the sigh. He knew that it'd been an accident, and hadn't intended on letting Jim know that he knew. "Forget it Jim, you don't have to say it. It was an accident."

Jim turned around. "You knew?"

"Not until now. I just dreamed about it," Artie said.

Jim came back and sat on the side of the bed. "The man who started shooting at me…I fired at him just when he rode into your path. Your bullet hit him first, so when he fell, you were left wide open."

Artie nodded. "I know."

"I'm so sorry, Artie," Jim said. "I could've _killed_ you. Can you forgive me?"

Artie smiled slightly. "James my boy, I already did. It wasn't your fault that my bullet hit the man first."

Jim sighed again.

"Don't think about it anymore, Jim," Artie said. "I'll be fine." He yawned and shifted his position, which of course was a mistake and he winced from the pain.

Jim tried to help Artie get comfortable. "Is there anything you need?"

Artie shook his head. "Just sleep."

Jim nodded. He went over and closed the curtains, before standing there for a few seconds, watching his friend. "I'll be right back," he said. "I want to change out of these dirty clothes."

"Okay," Artie said, as his friend headed towards the door. He watched as Jim left, and sighed. He forgave his friend without question…he just hoped that Jim would be able to forgive himself.

THE END


	6. December 6, 1877

**EPISODE 6: DECEMBER 6, 1877**

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Artemus Gordon was ever a defender of women: hating any man who would have the gall to harm one hair on their pretty heads. Therefore, when he and Jim were secretly investigating corruption accusations against Omaha governor Carson Harding, Artie unintentionally got said governor very angry with him.

He and Jim were in the governor's home, on the pretense of having been passing though, and coming upon him 'by accident'. He'd naturally extended a dinner invitation, and afterwards, Jim and Artie decided to wander around and look at the house—rather, search for information. Eventually, they came to the library, and were shocked at what they heard coming from inside…the governor was yelling at his wife.

"I don't care!" Harding exclaimed. "You are my wife, Tessa, and you will obey."

"But Carson…"

"No!" he yelled back. "Your opinion does not matter!"

A scuffle was suddenly heard, and Jim and Artie shared a shocked glance before running to the door and opening it, watching in shock as Harding shoved Tessa away from him, hard.

Tessa…a petite and very pregnant woman.

Before Jim even had a chance to react, Artie dove forward to catch her, but Harding had shoved her so hard, that she bowled Artie over, and they both fell to the floor.

Artie had thankfully managed to get his arms around her waist and twist their bodies so that he took the most impact, successfully protecting her unborn baby, but he smacked the back of his head when they landed.

Jim ran forward immediately, cringing at the sound of his friend's head hitting the floor.

Tessa was crying and trying to push herself up, but Artie's arms had tightened around her, probably in response to the pain of hitting his head.

"Artie!" said Jim, hoping that his friend hadn't knocked himself unconscious. He grabbed his friend's hands and pulled them away from Tessa, allowing her to move. She sat up with difficulty, wiping her eyes and looking towards the man who had saved her.

Artie blinked his eyes open and winced, reaching a hand to the back of his head as Jim helped him sit up.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked.

"Yeah," Artie said, rubbing the bump on his head that was rapidly forming into a goose egg. He looked at Tessa, seeing the tear tracks on her face. His expression darkened, and he looked at Harding, to see that his back was to them. He didn't even have the decency to check if his wife was all right.

Moving to stand up, Artie accepted Jim's help, swaying a little once he was upright, hand still on his head. "Harding!" he exclaimed.

Harding turned, downing a glass of brandy.

Artie shook his head, even though it was throbbing. "I'm appalled at the behavior that I've just witnessed from you," he said, reaching down to pull Tessa to her feet. "It astounds me that a man of your station could deliberately mistreat his lovely wife—and unborn child! That is not the action of a _man_…it is the action of a _coward_!"

Tessa gasped at Artie's words.

Harding threw his empty glass into the fireplace, where it shattered. "Get out!" he shouted.

Artie realized that he might've gone too far, when he looked at Tessa and realized that they would be leaving her at Harding's mercy.

She closed her eyes and lowered her head for a minute, more tears slipping down her cheeks. "I'll be all right," she said. "He does this all the time, and forgets about it once he wakes up in the morning."

Her words made Jim and Artie even _more_ angry.

"It's unacceptable!" Artie said, shooting another dark look at Harding, who was pouring himself another drink.

Tessa sighed. "Go, hurry…before he turns around and finds you still here." She pulled Artie out the door, with Jim beside them, and had one of the servants fetch their coats and hats.

"You may be used to this," said Artie. "But it is even more dangerous in your current condition…"

"I know," she said. "But I shan't be in this condition for much longer. Perhaps my husband will be different once his son arrives."

Artie sighed. "Men don't change that easily, Mrs. Harding…especially men like him," he said, referring to his excessive drinking.

"Please, call me 'Tessa'," she said. "You've earned that right."

"How do you know that it'll be a boy?" Jim asked. "Will he accept a daughter, or will _that_ make him angry too?"

Tessa sighed, as the servant approached with their coats. "I'm not sure. Every man hopes for a son to carry on the family name…but I myself wish for a girl," she said, smiling slightly.

Artie and Jim smiled at her, as they donned their coats.

Tessa accompanied them to the door, still holding Artie's arm, in appreciation of what he had done for her. "Thank you for protecting me," she said. "How is your head?"

"Oh, it's fine, don't worry," Artie lied. "I didn't hit it that hard."

She nodded, relieved, as she opened the door. Snow was falling, and Artie and Jim put their hats on.

"We're staying at the hotel," Artie told Tessa. "If anything happens…if you need us for _anything_ at all, please don't hesitate to contact us. Send a servant, a carrier pigeon…whatever. We'll be here as fast as we can."

Tessa smiled. "Thank you."

Artie and Jim tipped their hats to her, and stepped outside. The door closing behind them sounded final.

Artie sighed.

"Laid it on pretty thick, don't you think?" Jim said, as they headed to the carriage that would take them back to the hotel.

"Look how he treated her, Jim!" Artie exclaimed. He climbed into the carriage first, continuing once they were seated. "What kind of animal does that to a woman?"

Jim sighed. "The evil kind."

Artie echoed the sigh, wincing once the carriage started to make its way unevenly through the snow.

"How's your head?" Jim asked.

"It's fine," Artie said.

"The _truth_, Artie," said Jim. "Not the lie that you told Mrs. Harding."

Artie looked at him, realizing that he might've fooled Tessa, but he couldn't fool his best friend. "It's throbbing."

Jim nodded. "Thought so."

"It's worth it, though," Artie said, rubbing the back of his head. "If she'd landed on the floor, the baby would've probably been killed."

Jim had no doubt that Artie was right.

It took a while for the carriage to navigate through the snow, and when they finally arrived at the hotel, they were both practically frozen.

Jim climbed out of the carriage first and reached up to grab Artie's arm, not wanting to risk him slipping and getting _another_ bump on his head. There was six inches of new snow on the ground, and he kept the grip on Artie as they carefully headed towards the door.

Making it inside, they both took off their hats and shook off the snow, heading up the stairs to their room.

Artie sighed as he sat on his bed. He looked at Jim and blinked in shock at what he saw in his friend's hand:

A snowball.

"Jim, if you throw that at me, I will _not_ be responsible for my actions," Artie said, tiredly.

Jim grinned, before walking over to him. "It's not for throwing, Artie," he said, sitting beside him on the bed and looking for the bump on his head. When he found it, he smacked the snowball a few times to make it flatter, before placing it against the bump.

Artie flinched.

Jim grabbed Artie's still-gloved hand and placed it on top of the snowball to hold it in place, before he rose to light the fireplace.

Artie had to admit that though the snowball was extremely cold, it was helping. "Thanks, Jim."

Jim nodded, removing his coat.

A few hours later, Artie lay in his bed quietly, thinking of Tessa, and praying that her husband wouldn't try to harm her again. He spent a restless night, enduring his headache and worried for the poor young woman.

Around 3:30am, he suddenly saw Jim roll over in his bed and look towards him, before getting up and heading over.

"Yes, James?" Artie said, easily figuring out what his friend was doing.

Jim jumped. "You're awake."

Artie sighed. "Unfortunately."

"I was coming to wake you up," said Jim. "Just in case you have a concussion."

"I know you were," Artie said. "And no, I don't have a concussion, Jim."

"Good. Why are you awake?" Jim asked, going over to stoke the fireplace.

"I can't stop thinking of Tessa," Artie said. "If we hadn't been there, her baby would probably be dead…and she might be, too. She doesn't deserve to be married to that evil man."

Jim sighed. "I know, Artie, but there's nothing that we can do…except find proof of Harding's criminal activities, and put him in jail. Then she'll be free."

Artie nodded. "Yeah."

Jim headed back to his bed. "Go to sleep, Artie…we have our work cut out for us, and now you have an injury to deal with. Get all the rest that you can."

Artie knew that his friend was right. He needed to be healthy in order to do his job…to get Carson Harding put in jail and away from Tessa as soon as possible. He closed his eyes…and was asleep within minutes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next morning, Artie woke to find his partner gone from the room. Looking at the clock, he was shocked to find that it was 10am. Quickly sitting up, he winced when his head responded by throbbing, and he reached up to rub it, finding that the snowball had only minimally decreased the size of the lump.

Dressing as fast as his headache would let him, he headed downstairs to the dining room, wondering if he would find Jim there. He didn't, and sat down to eat, ordering a stack of pancakes.

Just as the waiter placed it in front of him, a figure suddenly appeared and sat in the chair across from him.

"Eggs and ham, please," Jim said to the waiter before he could leave. "How's your head?" he asked Artie, removing his hat and coat.

"Still attached," Artie answered.

"I can see that," said Jim. "You're a man of answers that aren't answers, Artie."

"I try," Artie replied with a half-grin, taking a bite.

Jim shook his head. "I've been investigating," he said. "And picked these up along the way." Sticking his hand in a pocket, he took out a bottle of aspirin and sat it on the table.

Artie reached over to take it. "Oh, _thank_ you, James my boy." He opened the bottle and shook two into his hand, swallowing them with the help of his coffee.

Jim smiled, before taking a piece of paper out of his other pocket and unfolding it, sliding it across the table to his friend.

_Mr. West and Gordon,_

_Please meet me tonight behind the livery stable at 5. I will tell you what you need to know then._

_P. Smith_

"Aha!" said Artie. "The proof we need! We might be able to get Tessa away from Harding tonight!"

Jim nodded, looking towards the kitchen, wanting his food. It came a couple of minutes later, and he dug in.

The aspirins helped Artie's headache, and they spent the day speaking to Harding's former political opponents, gathering information that could only be considered hearsay. It turned out to be a waste of time, and they eagerly awaited five o'clock, when they could get real proof.

Finally, the meeting time came, and Jim and Artie stood behind the livery stable, waiting for Mr. Smith to arrive.

He did…but he wasn't alone.

"Mr. West and Mr. Gordon!" said Carson Harding, holding Smith by the back of his coat with a gun pointed at him. "I'm not surprised to find you here…now we know the true reason for your visit to Omaha."

"Give it up, Harding," Jim said. "We know _everything_," he bluffed. "You're going to jail."

"I highly doubt that," Harding said. "You can't do anything to me without _him_," with that, he fired his gun, and Smith dropped.

Jim and Artie looked at each other in shock. "Now we don't _need_ his information," said Jim. "Because you just committed murder right in front of us!"

"And what makes you think that the two of you will live to tell the tale?" Harding exclaimed.

More men suddenly poured out of the darkness, and started shooting at Jim and Artie, who pulled out their guns and fired back, running for cover.

Before Artie made it, a sudden pain shot through his right leg and he fell with a shocked cry. Scrambling, he made it around the corner of a nearby building and looked at his leg, finding blood quickly spreading through his pants.

"Artie!" Jim yelled, from where he hid behind a horse trough.

"I'm all right!" Artie yelled back, shooting around the corner.

"You won't be for long," a voice said.

Artie suddenly felt a gun press against the back of his neck.

"Drop it," Harding said.

Artie dropped his gun.

Harding grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him to his feet, pulling him towards a carriage. "You're coming with me, Mr. _Don Juan_," he said, sarcastically.

Artie tried to look behind himself towards Jim, who, focused on the gunfight, had no idea that he was being kidnapped by their foe.

Artie was brought to the Harding home and forced into the cellar, where they came upon a room. Harding threw Artie inside without a word.

Artie pushed himself to a sitting position as the door slammed shut, wincing at the pain in his leg. What he saw when he looked up surprised him.

Tessa was sitting on the floor against the opposite wall.

"What are you doing in _here_?" he asked, crawling closer to her.

She sighed, raggedly. "I'm surprised that I didn't end up in here _sooner_."

Artie frowned at the sound of her voice. She sounded weak, and he suddenly noticed that her face was red and sweaty. He looked at her rounded stomach for a second before looking back up at her face. "Are you…uh…" he said, gesturing to her stomach.

She nodded, rubbing both hands over it.

"For how long?" he asked, nervously.

"Since before dawn," she said. "Carson doesn't even know! What time is it now?"

Artie looked at his watch. "Nearly 5:30."

She gave a humorless laugh. "Then you may have arrived just in time," she said. "Today is December 6th, am I right?"

Artie nodded. "Yes, why?"

Tessa smiled. "Just wondering when my child's future birthdays will be."

Artie was speechless. Despite the many crazy or terrible situations he'd ended up in, he never expected something like _this_ to happen.

Suddenly Tessa's body jerked, and she squeezed her eyes shut with a wince, unable to stop a gasp of pain.

Artie scrambled closer, grabbing her hand so she'd have something to squeeze.

Tessa breath came in pants, and she groaned loudly.

"Just keep breathing," Artie said, patting her hand as she squeezed the life out of his.

After what seemed like forever, she relaxed, still breathing heavily.

Not letting go of her hand, Artie took out his watch and looked at it. "How long ago was the last one?"

"Just…before…he threw you in here."

Artie swallowed nervously. In that case, it wouldn't be long before there were three of them in that room instead of two. Something important suddenly struck him. "This isn't happening too early, is it?"

She shook her head.

Artie inwardly sighed with relief at that. He shifted his position, trying to ease some of the pain in his leg, but was abruptly interrupted when Tessa gasped again.

_So soon?_ he thought.

Tessa squeezed his hand again, and Artie almost echoed her cry of pain. He was suddenly relieved that he'd given her his _left_ hand, not his right.

"Ohh…ohh…I think it's coming _now_!" she suddenly exclaimed.

Artie felt his own breathing quicken. "Are you sure?" he asked, not wanting to look until he had to, for her sake.

But she said nothing else, gasping a few more times before relaxing. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall.

Artie took out his handkerchief and patted it over her sweaty face.

"This is it," she said. "Thank you for being here, Mr. Gordon. I would have been terrified to do this alone."

Artie gave her a confident smile, though his stomach was full of butterflies. So many things could go wrong, and he quickly sent up a prayer. "Anything I can do to help, my dear," he said, trying to disguise his nervousness.

She smiled back, before tensing up again.

Artie quickly let go of her hand and scrambled to get in front of her, taking off his coat and pushing up his sleeves. He suddenly noticed a pile of cloth nearby, and realized that it was her petticoat, which she obviously intended to wrap the baby in. He grabbed it and ripped it in half before dropping it into his lap, watching Tessa's face as she pulled her knees up and fumbled with her dress.

"Ahhh!" she exclaimed. "It's coming, it's coming!"

Taking that as permission, Artie reluctantly looked, and his face dawned with awe when he saw a tiny head.

Tessa gasped again and started to push.

Artie watched as the head moved, trying to emerge. It was a slower process than Artie expected, and he looked up when Tessa stopped pushing.

Her head was leaned back against the wall and she was breathing heavily.

Artie resisted the urge to ask, 'What happened?' "Tessa?" he said instead.

She gave a slight smile. "Women are not horses," she answered.

Artie realized that they had to wait for the next contraction, and pulled the dress down over her knees to preserve her modesty…or what little she had left. He soon saw that the gesture had been pointless when she suddenly tensed and pulled the dress back up, immediately starting to push again.

The head moved faster this time, and crowned before she stopped pushing.

"You're doing fine," Artie reassured her. "It's almost over."

Tessa gave a tired smile before pushing again.

If Artie was awed before, it doubled as the baby's head emerged. Taking the petticoat, he reached forward with shaking hands.

Tessa stopped pushing with a gasp, her breath coming in heaves.

Artie looked at her, and a chill went down his spine at what he saw. "Tessa," he said.

She didn't answer, head hanging.

"Tessa!" he exclaimed. _No, _he thought, _Please, God…_

"I'm too weak," she mumbled, tears slipping down her face as her body tensed with another contraction.

"No you're not!" Artie said. "You're almost done, Tessa! In another minute, you'll have a beautiful child to love. Don't let her down, Tessa…don't let _me_ down."

Without another word, Tessa pushed again, crying out with the effort.

Artie's heart was pounding, and he watched as the baby barely moved. "Harder, Tessa! Harder, or she'll die!"

Those words seemed to motivate her, and she cried out again as she tried to obey.

Artie was breathing almost as heavily as Tessa was, his wounded body not quite able to handle the desperation of the situation. He gasped when the baby's shoulders slipped out, and he was finally able to grasp it in the petticoat. "Once more, Tessa, just once more!"

She obeyed, using the last of her strength.

The baby was suddenly lying in Artie's hands, and all four of its limbs jerked as it let out a loud cry. Artie was so shocked, that he nearly dropped it. He looked up into Tessa's face, and she weakly smiled at him.

"It's a girl," Artie told her, almost unable to get the words out.

Tessa laughed with glee over that, more tears slipping down her face.

As Artie looked down at the baby, he realized that his own face wasn't dry either. All he could do was stare down at the tiny infant, as it squirmed in his hands.

Suddenly, the door was thrown open.

Artie turned his head to see Jim standing there, staring in shock at the bizarre scene. "Jim," he said. He looked down at the baby before looking back at his friend and holding it up for him to see.

Jim blinked, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He took a few steps closer, saying nothing until he reached them. Shaking his head, he said, "_You've_ been busy."

Artie laughed at that.

Jim waited a few seconds before saying, "Uh, Artie…I think someone else would like to hold the baby."

Artie looked at him, before realization dawned and he looked at Tessa again. "Oh! I'm so sorry!" He carefully handed her over to her mother, who rested her cheek on her daughter's head.

Jim suddenly noticed the umbilical cord that stretched from the baby and disappeared under Tessa's dress. Realizing that the birth wasn't over, he moved away from his friend's side and knelt beside Tessa, not wanting to embarrass her by being a spectator.

No sooner had he moved than she suddenly gasped. Knowing what was coming, she raised her knees again, having lowered them when Jim had burst in.

Artie grabbed the other half of the petticoat and quickly laid it on the floor.

Tessa gave one last push, the pain nowhere near as bad.

Artie reached out and pulled the petticoat away from her, grabbing the corners and tying them. He suddenly realized that they needed to cut the cord.

Jim had already thought of that, and pulled his hidden knife out from the back of his jacket, striking a match and holding the blade in the flame for a minute. He ripped a piece of cloth off the petticoat that covered the baby, before ripping it in half and tying both pieces around the cord a couple of inches apart and slicing it in the middle.

Artie smiled; amused that Jim had been able to play a part in a memory that neither of them would ever forget. Suddenly, he blinked when his vision unexpectedly swam before his eyes, and he suddenly felt someone grab his upper arms.

"Artie," he heard. It was Jim's voice, and it seemed very far away. He suddenly felt the hands shake him, and he opened his eyes, having not even realized that he'd closed them. Blinking, he raised his head to find Jim's concerned face looking into his own.

"What happened?" he mumbled, feeling dizzy.

"You passed out," Jim told him, grateful that he'd managed to catch his friend before he could hit the floor. He looked at Artie's leg and saw that the handkerchief tied around it was completely red. "How much blood did you lose?"

"More than I thought, I guess," Artie replied.

Jim nodded, not surprised. He looked at Tessa, wondering how he was going to get both of them out of there, when neither of them were in any condition to walk.

"Carry her," Artie said. "I can make it."

"What just happened seems to contradict that, Artie," Jim answered, his hands still on his friend's arms.

"Just help me up," Artie answered.

Seeing no other way, Jim obeyed, standing and pulling his friend off the floor.

Artie swayed dizzily, Jim and the wall the only things keeping him on his feet. He closed his eyes and leaned his still-aching head against the wall, blinking away the black spots that had invaded his vision.

Jim held onto him tightly, waiting to see if Artie would recover himself, or lose consciousness.

By a miracle, Artie managed to remain conscious, and he looked at his friend with a pained sigh. "Let's get outta here, Jim," he said.

"With pleasure," Jim answered. He suddenly took a gun out of his waistband—Artie's, which he'd found where Artie had been forced to drop it—and placed it in his friend's holster for him. He then threw Artie's coat over his arm and knelt beside Tessa, carefully lifted her, and headed towards the door, making Artie leave first.

Artie limped slowly, leaning on the wall. His leg was killing him. "Where's Harding?"

"I tied him up," Jim said. "After I get you two out of here, I'll send the sheriff to pick him up."

Artie nodded.

When they reached the stairs, Artie looked up them in dismay, having no idea how he would navigate them.

"Wait here," Jim told him. He quickly carried Tessa up the stairs and sat her on the floor at the top, before hurrying back down the steps and pulling one of Artie's arms around his neck. "Ready?"

Artie sighed. "No," he joked.

Jim smiled at him and started climbing the stairs.

Artie forced himself to go as fast as possible, but it wasn't easy. By the time they reached the top, he was breathing heavily, in terrible pain.

Jim stayed by his side, holding onto him to ensure that he wouldn't fall flat on the floor.

When Artie was ready, he nodded, and Jim lifted Tessa again and carried her through the kitchen and into the living room, where he lowered her into a chair. "Where can I find a coat for you?" he asked her.

"In that closet," she said, gesturing to the far corner of the room.

Jim headed over to Artie and helped him get to the couch, where he sat him down, before starting for the closet. Suddenly thinking, he went back to Tessa, realizing that she couldn't put a coat on while holding the baby. "How will you…uh…?" he said.

She realized what he was trying to say. She held her arms out. "Here, put her on the couch."

Jim blinked, wishing that Artie wasn't currently immobile. Nervously, he reached out and took the baby into his arms, before rushing the few feet over to the couch and laying her beside Artie.

Artie couldn't help but look down at the precious infant, who was asleep.

As Jim headed over to the closet, Harding suddenly burst into the room, holding his gun to Tessa's head. "Drop your gun, West!"

"Carson!" Tessa exclaimed.

Harding pulled back the hammer on his gun, and Jim, shocked that Harding had gotten loose from his bonds, dropped his own to the floor.

Artie protectively wrapped one arm around the baby as he also tossed away his gun.

Harding looked at him and noticed the rolled up sleeves and spots of blood here and there on his hands. Realizing what Artie had done, he roared, "How _dare_ you!" as if scandalized.

"How dare I?" said Artie. "How dare I help your wife when she needed it the most?" He shook his head. "This is your daughter, Harding. Will you treat her better than you treat Tessa?"

With a roar of anger, Harding pointed his gun at the baby.

Not expecting that, Artie immediately scooped the baby up and held her upright against his chest, standing from the couch. Noticing Jim trying to slink closer to Harding, Artie limped away from the couch in the other direction, to ensure that Harding didn't see what Jim was doing.

Tessa was in a state of panic over her husband's actions. "Carson! What are you doing?!"

"Shut up, Tessa!" he said, following Artie with the gun.

"Drop the gun, Harding," Artie said. "You're going to jail. You'll never harm your wife or daughter again."

"And I suppose you'll take them for yourself?" Harding exclaimed. "Over my dead body!" With that, he fired.

Artie immediately turned around, to protect the baby, and fell to his knees when the bullet struck the back of his left shoulder.

Tessa screamed and Jim dove at Harding, wrestling him for the gun.

Tessa slid out of the chair and quickly crawled over to Artie. "Artemus!" she exclaimed. "Artemus!"

Artie's eyes were closed and he was gasping from the pain, still on his knees clutching the baby to his chest, despite the bullet wound, which was reddening the back of his shirt.

Tessa reached him and pulled the baby away, finding her thankfully unharmed and laying her on the floor. The sounds of Jim and Harding fighting filled the room, but she ignored it, grabbing Artie's arm. "Artemus!" she said again.

Artie opened his eyes, wincing. He looked towards Jim, in time to see him punch Harding in the face with enough force to knock him out. With that, Artie closed his eyes and slumped against Tessa, barely conscious.

"No!" she exclaimed, trying to lay him on the floor without dropping him. "Mr. West!" she shouted.

Jim rushed over and dropped to his knees, grabbing Artie from her and laying him down carefully, before checking the pulse on his friend's neck and finding it weak. He'd already lost blood from the bullet in his leg…he could bleed to death quickly from the shoulder wound. "We need to get him to the hospital right _now_," he said, urgently.

That was the last thing that Artie heard before darkness engulfed him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The sound of a baby crying broke through Artie's unconscious state, and he moved his head slightly, not understanding what he was hearing.

"Artie?" he heard. The voice sounded far away.

It took a minute, but thanks to the gentle prompting of the voice, Artie finally opened his eyes, blinking at the two faces who looked down at him.

Jim and Tessa.

Artie blinked groggily, trying to focus. "Hey," he managed to say.

"How do you feel?" Jim asked.

Artie blinked sleepily. His left shoulder and right leg were aching, but he had the fuzzy feeling in his brain that told him that he was on a strong painkiller. Instead of answering, he sluggishly looked around the room. "Hospital?" he asked.

Jim nodded.

Artie looked at Tessa, who was gently swaying the crying baby. "Is she okay?" he asked, remembering having been holding the baby when he'd been shot.

Tessa nodded. "Yes, she is, thanks to you. How did you know that it would be a girl?"

Artie frowned, not knowing what she meant.

"In the seconds before she was born," said Tessa. "You kept referring to the baby as 'she'."

Artie smiled, remembering. "A gut feeling."

Tessa smiled back. "I had planned to name her Rosie," she said. "But I think I'll name her something else."

"What's that?" Artie asked, blinking his eyes sleepily.

"Artemis Rose," she said. "The female spelling, of course."

Some of the fog lifted from Artie's brain and he reopened his eyes. "You're naming her after _me_?"

Tessa nodded. "How can I _not_? She's _alive_ because of you."

A feeling of warmth swept over Artie that made him completely forget the pain of his bullet wounds for a moment. "I don't know what to say," he answered.

"Painkillers will do that to you," Jim quipped.

Tessa smiled. "There's nothing that you _need_ to say," she told him. "I'm the one who needs to say 'thank you'."

Artie smiled. "You're welcome." He pulled his right arm out from under the blanket and tried to reach out to touch the baby.

Tessa leaned over to let Artie see her, and he smiled at the bright blue eyes that looked back at him.

"She's beautiful," Artie said, taking her tiny hand. "My name suits her."

Jim chuckled at that.

"It suits her _very_ well," Tessa said.

Just then, a nurse came into the room. "Mrs. Harding," she said. "The doctor would like to give you and the little one a checkup."

Tessa nodded and stood. "We'll come back to visit again, Artemus."

Artie grinned. "I'll look forward to it."

Tessa smiled back and left the room with the nurse's help.

Artie looked at Jim, with a sigh. "Okay, lay it on me. How bad is it?"

"No worse than usual," Jim said.

Artie made a skeptical expression.

"Okay, a _little_ worse than usual," said Jim. "You lost too much blood, between both wounds, and have been unconscious for 18 hours."

Artie didn't expect that. "Oh."

"Neither bullet did much damage," Jim continued. "You'll need time to get your strength back after such a heavy blood loss, but the doctor said that you'll be fine."

Artie nodded, relieved to hear that. "And Harding?"

"In jail," said Jim. "Tessa is going back home to her mother, who is ecstatic about it."

"I'm sure," Artie said, closing his eyes and reopening them again.

Jim patted his arm. "Go to sleep, Artie. You've more than earned it."

Artie gave him a tired smile before dropping off to sleep…wondering what his little namesake would look like someday all grown up.

THE END


End file.
